


Live Forever

by pocketbookangel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, M/M, Pre-Canon, Vampire Lestrade, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3504707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/pseuds/pocketbookangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[vampire AU]  A couple of years ago, shortly after John, but before Moriarty caused all of that trouble, Molly gave a party. She’d been following tiny house blogs, and if a couple who lived in a converted shipping container could have twenty-five of their closest over for sangria and tango lessons, surely her three rooms would suffice for tapas.</p>
<p>It did. It was a wonderful party, everyone was happily washing down thin slices of chorizo with red wine, until Lestrade, who had been enjoying the wine very much, found Molly’s guitar. He picked it up, said <em>mind if I</em>, made a show of tuning, then launched into “Live Forever” by Oasis. At first, Molly’s colleagues, her one friend from uni, her married friends, and John all tried to carry on as if the heartfelt strumming wasn’t happening. Molly desperately tried to think of a way to make it stop.</p>
<p>Sherlock. He could always be counted to say the undiplomatic thing and he never passed up an opportunity to sneer at Lestrade. Molly waited for his public school voice to halt the impromptu concert. But Sherlock was silent. He leaned against the wall, the corners of his lips turned up in what appeared to be a small, pleased smile. Molly knew she’d discovered a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Fortunately, the next song was “Don’t Look Back in Anger”, and Molly’s guests decided that if Lestrade couldn’t be stopped, he would have to be joined, and crowd singalongs did not allow for private communication.
> 
> Years later, when John would ask Molly how long she’d known, she’d tell him about that night. _It wouldn’t have changed anything if you’d known_ , she would reassure him, and he let himself be convinced. In his life, he’d learned to believe in fate, that certain bullets would always find their target. It helped him sleep at night.

“What’s the point of it?”

Lestrade ignored Sherlock’s question. They’d discussed it before and would discuss it again.

“You’re still going to die. You’re still aging.”

“More grey hairs in the last five years than in the last hundred,” Lestrade said. He took Sherlock’s hand and turned it over, palm facing the sky, veins dark with blood. He waited for Sherlock to say no.

“Stop thinking, Lestrade.”

 --

How old are you? Do you remember the Blitz? How about the death of Queen Victoria? That was quite a public event they say. I’m trying to imagine you in a cravat and stockings and it doesn’t really work.

 --

It had been an accident. Sherlock, too clever for his own good, pale eyes taking in a scene he was never meant to uncover. The brilliant new detail he’d discovered had vanished from his mind when he took in the scene: Lestrade holding down their prime suspect, twisting the man’s arm to an unnatural angle, the smell of blood. He demanded an explanation.

“We have an arrangement. We protect the city and the city keeps us alive.”

“People must know. How can you stop them from telling?”

“We ask them not to say anything.”

“And they listen? The press in this country are absolute wolves. How can they resist community policing turned all-you-can drink?”

“We order them not to tell. Just like I’m ordering you.”

Sherlock looked directly into Lestrade’s eyes. “I don’t take orders from anyone,” he said.

It was foolish and brave and Lestrade loved him for it.

The bite was ice and daggers that plunged him into darkness. The ocean’s waves crashed into him, salt water, unclean and gritty, wearing down his fragile walls, throwing his organised mind into disarray. Even underwater, he was still alert, still calculating. Lestrade hadn’t bit an artery, so it probably wasn’t murder. His rapid heartbeat was from the shock and the pain and the strangeness of feeling the weight of another man’s body on top of him. One part of his mind was caught in eternity, while the other counted the seconds.

“A little more than half a litre,” Sherlock whispered. Lestrade pressed his lips against the wound, and Sherlock gasped.

“Of course, your saliva must promote coagulation. Can’t have your dinner bleeding out at inconvenient moments.” He watched Lestrade carefully. “And now you’ll want me to drink your blood.”

“You don’t have to.” Lestrade had made a small cut on his own hand. A few bright red drops glistened.

They brought a bliss so intense that Sherlock abandoned his calculations.

“Do I have to call you master now? I won’t,” Sherlock said, after he recovered.

“It’s a bit naff. You can call me Greg.” Perhaps Lestrade should have made that an order because Sherlock promptly tucked ‘Greg’ away in one of his newly rebuilt mind palace’s dustbins and continued to refer to him as ‘Lestrade’ on good days and as a variety of insults on others.

 --

How old are you? I’ve been looking at drawings of the Bow Street Runners, and there’s one that looks a lot like you. Of course, it’s hard to tell because of the hat and sideburns and grim solemnity.

 --

“Do you…” Lestrade tried to think of how to say it. It had been easier with the others. They’d been eager to throw themselves into the arms of their demon lover and consume his essence. “Do you want a little drink?”

“Shouldn’t that be my line? What’s the point of it?” Sherlock wondered. “It doesn’t increase the odds of my coming back.”

“Pleasure, Sherlock. I’ve been told that some people even see it as a reward.”

“Reward? I suppose it’s fine for those who can’t imagine a relationship based on anything other than an exchange of bodily fluids.”

“As opposed to our relationship which is based on trust, mutual respect, and bodily fluids.”

Sherlock laughed, his eyes bright. “You do realise I’ll be the one who comes back. Doesn’t the thought of spending forever with me _terrify_ you?”

 --

One out of a thousand survives the change, Lestrade told him. Maybe one out of ten thousand.

How many of yours? Sherlock asked.

 --

The cab driver looked human, but his skin crackled like parchment when he moved and he carried with him the smell of decay and bodies rotting under the earth. Whatever the glass vials he was offering held was absorbing the fluorescent light, trapping it inside.

“There’s others out there just like you, except you’re still a man. And they’re so much more than that,” the cab driver said.

“What do you mean more than a man?”

“There’s a word no one says. And I’m not going to say it either.”

“Do you mean _vampire_? Why all of the mystery? It’s a waste of my time, a waste of yours as well, although your lot can afford to be careless there. I’m not going to choose one of these, whatever they are…”

Despite his words, Sherlock couldn’t keep stop staring at the vials.

“One brings eternal life, guaranteed. No risk, not like doing it the old-fashioned way. The other brings death to anyone. Anyone, human or other.”

Sherlock picked up the vial the cab driver had pushed toward him. Grains of sand collected from a desert that had never seen the sun. The two looked identical, but he knew this one had to be wrong. He picked up the other one. The vial felt warm to his touch, inviting him to open it. Lestrade had been so afraid when Sherlock had asked about the others, but if the cab driver had been telling the truth, this could be the solution. He would live forever.

The shot exploded through the glass, hitting the cab driver directly in the chest. He looked down at his injury, more surprised than hurt, then screamed. The magic that held him together failed, and he kept screaming until his body turned to dust.

“That shot?” Sherlock asked his new flatmate. John had waited patiently for him outside the circle of the law's flashing lights.

“Silver bullets dipped in holy water, crosses etched on the side. Not the most cutting-edge technology, but it works, so I don’t question it,” John replied.

“How did you know he wasn't a human?”

“Vampire? I didn’t, not until I saw the two of you together in that room. I can’t tell vampires from people, makes it a bit difficult hunting them, but you can see the difference, can’t you?”

“How did you start… no, we’ll talk about it over dinner. I’d better tell Lestrade that I’ll make a report tomorrow before he gets the idea that I should be helping the police with their enquiries tonight.”

The story Sherlock eventually told was so plausible Lestrade knew it couldn’t possibly be true. One day Sherlock would tell him the truth. If Lestrade had learned anything in his life, he’d learned how to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Other skills Lestrade has acquired over the years:
> 
>   * playing the guitar
>   * change ringing
>   * cooking nice omelettes
>   * baritsu
>   * [secret]
>   * understanding cats
>   * looking surprisingly handsome when necessary
>   * creating effective PowerPoint presentations
>   * reading tarot cards
> He's not really a good shot (vampires don't care for guns), and he doesn't know his colours. According to Mrs Hudson, he's 'warm spring', but Sherlock says he's a 'cool autumn', and he listens to Sherlock. That's another skill: listening to Sherlock.



End file.
